


Beyond Repair

by Irony_Rocks



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irony_Rocks/pseuds/Irony_Rocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon - who she refused to think about when John had silently trailed after her down the corridor, towards her bedroom, the only contact between them the hand on the small of her back; the knowledge of what was to come still somehow irrefutable and warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Repair

**Title:** Beyond Repair (COMPLETE)  
 **Pairing:** Sheppard/Weir  
 **Summary:** "Simon - who she refused to think about when John had silently trailed after her down the corridor, towards her bedroom, the only contact between them the hand on the small of her back; the knowledge of what was to come still somehow irrefutable and warm."  
 **Warnings:** R, sexual situations and language. PWP.  
 **Spoilers:** post _The Storm/The Eye_  
 **Beta'd:** .  
 **Author's Notes** : Written for several reasons. 1.) Comfort!fic for , a fellow Grad student feeling the burn. *hugs* 2.) Sparktober feast (I still cannot call it that with a straight face), that's celebrating Sparky S1, and because _The Storm/The Eye_ were the best two episodes EVER. We need more fic written about them, damnit. 3.) and I have had several mini-conversations about the possibility of Sparky shower!smut. I have claimed, on more than one occassion, to have written it and have yet to post any of said writing. And 4.)... Wait a minute. There needs to be a reason for more S/W smut in the world? *confused*

 

\--X--

Two days ago, the closest physical contact she'd ever had with Major John Sheppard was a lingering touch on the forearm that had lasted two seconds too long. So when Elizabeth woke up this morning to find him curled up naked against her back, arm warped tightly across her waist in a strong grip, she should have had a moment's worth of disorientation. She should have cursed or jolted or frozen stiff at finding herself encased in this entanglement of limbs.

His face was buried in her hair and she could tell from his warm breath on her neck and ear that he was still dead to the world. His two-day-old beard stubble tickled her where it grazed against her skin, and it was strange after months of sleeping alone in her bed to suddenly wake up to find a man – John Sheppard, no less – in it with her.

So the normal reaction should have been some sort of shock, right?

Except despite the chaos of the previous days and the current sluggishness of her body, her thoughts grew very heavy and yet very crystal clear within seconds of waking. Maybe more clear than they had been in some time. The memories from the last few days had never faded from her mind, even in the midst of sleep, so maybe that explained why she didn't pull away from the warmth of John, didn't even think about drawing free of his hold for one instance.

 _Say goodbye to Doctor Weir._

The weight of the memories settled heavily, inspiring that now familiar twist of revulsion in the pit of her stomach. The damn Genii. This memory would haunt her for a long time, she knew, though now she mused it was already beginning to fade into a dreamlike quality, as if she was remembering something that had happened to some other person. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and drove back the memories, forcing her breathing even in the hopes she wouldn't wake John. In fact, she had to resist the urge to burrow deeper into his hold.

Two days ago, she would never have been caught dead in such an embrace with her commanding officer. Now, she didn't want to move.

So, Elizabeth thought to herself, what does Doctor Weir do in a situation like this, ignoring the fact that she should never have been in it in the first place? She should be calm and collected, Elizabeth decided. She should explain to John that the previous night had been a mistake, and it was never to happen again. The situation, the fear, the near brush with death – it had made fools of them both.

Without waking, John made a noise deep in his throat that was suspiciously like a moan, and pulled her more firmly against him. His arm tightened and his hand landed against her bare chest, the curve of his palm settling over the swell of one of her breasts.

Damn, was the only thing Elizabeth could think coherently.

John would be insufferably arrogant if he knew just how strongly he was affecting her right now. How weak he was making her normally resilient willpower. Realistically, after the past few days, she was surprised that either of them had any strength left in their bodies at all. They both had to get up, though. They both had to walk back to Command Control and face everybody else in the next few hours.

They had to make arrangements for the funerals of Corporal Henderson and Lt. Jacobs, the two marines Kolya had killed.

The reminder dampened her mood. She released a forceful breath, and then applied gentle pressure against John's ribs with her elbow. After a moment, he grumbled something and rolled onto his back, and his hands slipped free from her body. Elizabeth pulled away and sat up, drawing the bed sheets around her to make a makeshift covering, but instead of climbing out of the bed she found herself looking down at him. He was sprawled on his back, thick hair tousled, bonelessly relaxed.

She was finally willing to admit to herself that maybe what she was feeling for John went beyond those things inspired in the aftermath of desperation and fear. Went beyond gratitude and loyalty. Things had vaulted past those banalities a long time ago between them. But there was a difference between what she wanted and what she was allowed to do. Falling for a man – John Sheppard – shouldn't have been in either category. God, this really had made a mess of things. Not that things had been particularly tidy beforehand.

She climbed out of bed as quietly as she could, but she made it no more than a few steps before John's groggy voice stopped her in her tracks. "Elizabeth?" he called, his voice gruff. She half turned to find him blinking up at her, eyes squinted against the glare of sunlight streaming in through her window. "What time is it?"

She had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. Here she was, thinking a thousand different things upon waking up in bed with him, and his first thought was to ask about the time. Typical male response. "Early morning," she answered, holding back a sigh. "I think we have another hour or two before we need to meet up with the others. Go back to sleep, John."

"Then come back to bed," he murmured, head falling back onto the pillow.

It was said so casually, so easily that Elizabeth had to pause. The remark for her to rejoin him seemed to be so natural for him. She silently marveled at that, and then wondered if it would it be so horrible of her to just accept the invitation and climb back into bed?

It was thinking like that, though, that had landed them in this predicament in the first place. She wasn't sure if last night had been a good event or a messy one, at least not yet. She was still muddling through her own thought processes to figure out where she stood, but she knew if climbed back into bed, it would lead to one thing and then another. And in the end, if she fell back on the other side of the equation and decided this hadn't been a good idea, it was easier to write off one mistake rather than two consecutive ones.

"I'm gonna take a shower," she offered, in place of declaring anything else.

John lifted his head briefly and mumbled something incoherent, and she suspected he fell back asleep before his head hit the pillow again. Not that she could blame him considering the ordeal he'd gone through the last few days and the lack of sleep accompanying it.

It had taken nearly a day after the Genii had retreated for the storm to pass, the electricity that charged the corridors of the city with lightning to finally disperse with it. Their group, in a state of exhaustion (and quite frankly shock) had at long last managed to retreat to their own rooms last night. Ironically enough, the only desire Elizabeth entertained at the time was the luxury of a hot shower.

As she entered her bathroom, she turned the lights on and decided to get things a little more back on the logical course of things. She brushed her teeth and washed her face in quiet, well aware that on the other side of the door, John was fast asleep and oblivious to the world.

She pulled the bed sheets free and let them drop into the hamper, careful to avoid lingering on the sight of her uniform jacket from yesterday. She had worn the damn thing for two days, much of it spent outside in the rain while Kolya trained a gun on her. If it was up to her, she'd burn the damn thing. Unfortunately they couldn't be so picky about resources.

She got the shower going, scorching so hot that when she tested it with her fingers the heat knocked her hand back. She spun the cold tap just a little, just enough to ensure she didn't scald herself but the warmth was more than welcome. She didn't mind in the least if she climbed out of the shower with slightly pink-flushed skin. It was better than the blue she had been suffering from days before. She stepped under the stream, soaked in a split second and indulging in the blast of heat.

Before she could stop the memory from registering, she remembered the freezing cold rain.

Her mind took up the thought and ran with it. She had been so cold and scared and, God, so many things could have gone wrong. So many things _did_ , but it could have been so much worse. She could have been… and then what of Atlantis? What would have happened to this city? And her people? And, god, it was all so horrifying to think about. She had been thinking of little else for so long, but every time a new nightmare sprang to mind, some dark twist to the familiar tale. Some things were a common theme, though: a bullet in her chest, Rodney in the ocean, John suffering from the Genii's wrath. All of it ending in the destruction of Atlantis.

She decided not to let her mind rest on those possibilities anymore, trying to force her mind blank. It wasn't easy, but in the meantime, she seemed to have something else to focus on, though it was of quite a different nature. It was a little while later – who knew how long – when she heard the bathroom door open.

Through the obscure glass, she could make out the vague outline of a barefoot and shirtless John (with a ridiculous tuff of hair that sprung up in every direction) approach the toilet and lift the lid. For a moment, she paused in credulity as she wondered – _no, he wouldn't._

But, of course, he did.

Her hand flew to her mouth and she bit back a bubble of laughter at the thought that John had obviously gotten comfortable if he was already this… _relaxed_ around her. A second after he scratched idly at his stomach, stretched, and flushed the toilet, he wandered over to the sink, and Elizabeth watched the vague outline of him finish off his morning routine in her bathroom as if he had done this a thousand times before.

He washed his face with her soap, gargled her mouthwash, and then dug around her cabinet for a spare toothbrush to quickly brush his teeth. It wasn't that he did any of these things that surprised her – it was the relaxed manner in which he did it. Like it was the most ordinary thing in the world for him to wake up and get dressed in her place.

 _Although maybe he just has a lot of experiences with one night stands._

The thought dampened her amusement. As she listened to him move about, she rested her head against the tiled wall and closed her eyes, waiting, wondering how to deal with what came next. Wondering if she even had the strength to deal with it. It was selfish and nearsighted to have slept with John, she knew that. But she had needed comfort desperately.

She should have stopped last night from ever happening. She should have quietly turned him back before he had ever passed the threshold of her bedroom door. Even with everything that had happened, Elizabeth had no excuse to show that type of lapse in judgment. That wasn't like her, and objectively she knew she was still suffering from the trauma, but she couldn't make herself work up the concern over it. She couldn't make herself remember that this was breaching a line she had vowed never to cross with any of her subordinates.

The only thing that mattered was that the city was safe, she was safe, and John... John was there: the voice over the radio; the man aiming his gun at the mark just above her left shoulder; the hand that pulled her up the stairs and back into command mode. John was _there_.

Now, though, did she have the luxury of that excuse? Days had passed and the adrenaline and, yes, even some of the fear had abated. It still lingered like the rank smell of a corpse, but the repulsion was starting to drift away.

And then there was Simon. God. Simon, who she refused to think about when John had silently trailed after her down the corridor, towards her bedroom, the only contact between them the hand on the small of her back; the knowledge of what was to come still somehow irrefutable and warming. Simon, who was loving and loyal and waiting for her on Earth. Simon, who didn't deserve to be cheated on like this, by her.

Elizabeth reached for the soap and lathered it up in her hands, singularly focused on the task instead of on the sounds of the man opposite her glass door. Suddenly, though, she found herself scrubbing her hands and arms, working the lather into her stomach and down her legs almost violently. The movements turned nearly into a scouring, her skin becoming pink and flushed under her rough exploits.

God, she couldn't use "post traumatic stress" as an excuse to continuing this. As it was, it was already going to become hopelessly messy and complicated trying to run the city together with him after last night. And yet here she was anyway, listening to the sounds of John in his morning routine, in her place, earlier amused at the domesticity of it.

 _Stupid. Irresponsible. Unforgiveable._

The accusations tumbled over in her head, striking a harsh chord that just made Elizabeth scrub harder at her skin. So singularly focused on not paying attention to anything John was doing nearby, she almost dropped the soap in surprise when his fingers brushed against hers, reaching for the soap. She hadn't realized it, but he had opened the shower door and climbed in. She hadn't realized it because she was barely holding in emotions that threatened to overwhelm her once again. Over Simon, over last night, over Kolya or whatever else there was, it seemed that… yes, she still wasn't acting her normal self yet.

John didn't say a thing, though her wrought emotions must have been obvious to even a blind man. Instead, seizing the soap in one hand, he gently pushed her back against the shower wall. Surprisingly, she didn't resist, pressing herself willingly against the cold tiles as she stared up at him. John worked the soap into suds, and she just watched silently, eyes locked on him. When his palm pressed flat against her stomach, John leaned fractionally closer over her body and Elizabeth anticipated a kiss. She almost opened her mouth to welcome it, all protests in her head apparently defeated without the slightest struggle.

Instead, slowly, the touch pooling heat through her, he started moving his hands over her skin, washing away the residue with a far gentler touch than she had been using on herself. Elizabeth felt pinned by his stroke as much as his eyes, both combining to overwhelm everything else she had been feeling moments ago.

He made her feel so safe, she realized. So calm when everything else made her feel like she was spiraling out of control, or that nothing had ever been in her control to begin with. That feeling, that sense of security, was nearly as intense as the ministration of his hands.

He started with her stomach, then her hands and arms, working the soap deep into her skin with slow circles. Steam and the aroma of the standard military issue cleanser filled the shower, but Elizabeth didn't focus on it, the only sensations she was aware of was John's hands, the sight of his gaze, the look of his lean body under the stream of water. She watched the rivulets of water flow over his broad shoulders and down the natural lines and contours of his chest. He was being surprisingly tempered and self-restrained in his actions, especially considering that she could already see the obvious tell-tale signs of his arousal.

Then she glanced up at his face and he flashed a smug smirk that would have had her blushing 48 hours ago. "You can look," he murmured, tossing her a wink. "I don't mind."

When she first met John Sheppard six months ago, it was exactly this flirtatious flyboy persona that had made her think twice about getting him onboard. Almost more than his track record with previous commanding officers, although now she suspected sleeping with the boss was going to be a new one for him. Or at least, she _hoped_.

"You're incorrigible, you know that?"

"I've been called worse," he murmured in reply, and he was so damn cocky. So carefree.

It was almost unthinkable to remember how he had been, days ago with the Genii.

Before the thought could solidify, he swept his hands across her shoulders and then down her chest, using the soap as an excuse to linger over the swell of her breasts. His hands kneaded with gentle pressure, thumb flickering over her nipple, and Elizabeth couldn't swallow the moan of his name.

That single sound, apparently, was enough to break John's resolve with the soap. The space between them was breached and suddenly he was _there_ , right where she wanted him, pressing her against the shower wall with the full weight of his body, his mouth moving over hers. She could feel the erection alongside her inner thigh, and his yet unshaven beard-stubble rasped against her flushed skin. She already had a red splatch of stubble burn on her right inner thigh, but it seemed he was going to leave more marks on her body. Elizabeth couldn't make herself care in that moment if he marked her this way or any other, even it meant the possibility that others could suspect if she came in with a damn hicky.

She swallowed the water on his lips as he crushed his mouth to hers, tongue pushing inside her mouth and making her go weak at the knees. He singularly took control of her awareness, a confident embrace not at all hesitant like he had been last night when he had first kissed her. So soft. He had been so soft, almost _reverent_ when he had first reached for her. She would likely never get over the feeling that had inspired in her – how it made her feel special, whole, like what had happened to her that day hadn't damaged her beyond repair after all.

Though this forceful tactic had its' advantages, too.

Her fingers slipped in between the spiky blades of his wet hair and she pulled him flush to her. She could feel the soap suds and beads of water working down her body cling to his along the way, and the soap slipped free from John's grasp and fell to the drain as he cupped the back of her neck in his hand, fingers tangling through wet hair. Water trickled down her throat as John mouthed wet kisses across her lips, down her chin, across her collarbone, sucking and biting and driving her mad.

Then he was whispering something, breathing so low in his throat she could barely hear it. "Elizabeth," he muttered, and she couldn't get over the dark thrill of his voice like that, saying her name. She wanted him to repeat it over and over again until she couldn't even remember what it sounded like to have him call her _Dr. Weir._ "I'm never letting you out of my sight again," he almost growled, that aggressive streak she'd seen in him before rearing its head.

She responded the only way she could. "God, John," she breathed, voice hitched, uncaring that her tone had turned desperate. She couldn't manage anything coherent, just uttering in blind reaction, "Fuck, John."

John took the words as a command. He clutched at her body greedily and she curved a leg over his and grabbed blindly at the shower railing nearby. The change in position left him with the perfect opportunity to hoist her leg more firmly around his waist, holding her up with a hand planted around her thigh. He finally pushed inside of her, their bodies melding as water showered down over the back of John's body, and the sensation made Elizabeth cry out.

One of her hands curled around the hand rail while the other pressed fingernails into his back, and together they rode the tidal wave of pleasure. He hitched her body higher, lapping her breast with his mouth, working his tongue over her nipples, and she arched into him. His thrusts stilled and started again before they found a rhythm that worked, that was perfect for both of them, and Elizabeth was unable to hold back the small gasps and sounds of pleasure from escaping.

In the middle of it, she had a vivid flashback to the rain again, of the water pouring down on her and how this was so different, yet still felt oddly the same. She couldn't deny that she felt just as out of depth with John thrusting into her as she had when she stood on that platform outside. She wasn't in control then, and she wasn't in control now. Difference was, this time she didn't mind so much.

He bit her neck and pulled back to lap at the mark with his tongue. "Salt water," he muttered against her ear, somehow finding the coherency to speak. "You," he breathed darkly, groaning, "you still taste like the ocean."

Elizabeth only hummed in response, resting her head against the cool tiles and closing her eyes against the sensation of John moving in and out of her, the rippling effect of their movement quickly building tension inside of her. When he insinuated a hand between their bodies, finding her bundle of nerves, Elizabeth cried out and arched into his touch.

Within seconds, she came so blindingly hard that she screamed, nothing more coherent than a cry of ecstasy that pulled John over the edge within a few thrusts. He found his release inside of her, choking her name in a voice so rough and raw that she flashed back to him screaming over the radio. Everything reminded her of that day, even the lust was tainted, but she couldn't care in that moment. She clutched at him, clinging to him at little too tightly as his body shuddered and rode the pleasure.

He stilled and settled against her, hands braced on the wall beside her body, head cradled into the crevice of her neck. Elizabeth licked her lips and swallowed drops of water, watching absently as the shower streamed across John's back in silence for a few moments as their breathing got under control.

This was too much, she realized. The feeling in her was swelling, and she didn't even know how to identify it. What to call it? It was thick and heavy, and made her feel like she was trying to reach for something that would just burn her with its intensity. She wanted to go back into bed, bury herself into the layers of warmth he provided and not care about all the complications it would bring about.

She wasn't falling for John Sheppard, right? She couldn't have been that _stupid_. What could this relationship possible hold besides the potential to blow up disastrously in their faces for a thousand different reasons? If she was smart, if she was strong, she'd end this right here and now because she could already see that they were both at the edge of something larger.

It should have scared the shit out of her, but John was the one thing right now she didn't fear; couldn't fear. God help her, she didn't want to pull back from this.

"Hey," he murmured in a husky voice against her ear. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing," she lied, taking a shuddering breath.

John saw through the lie, as evidenced by the disbelieving look he tossed her when he pulled back. "Elizabeth?"

She paused, bracing herself for something. "What?"

He shook his head and glanced away, a hint of anger blooming in his eyes. "If you decide to bolt on me, I swear..." he trailed off and groaned, taking a moment to marshal his words together. "I'm gonna come after you. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

She opened and closed her mouth, but she couldn't formulate anything particularly coherent. "This is a one-time mistake," she whispered. "You have to know that."

He raised an eyebrow, challenging. "Uh, I think this qualifies as more than once. Last night and today makes it, what? By my count, your four to my--"

She flushed in the face. "You know what I mean, John! We're being selfish right now. You have to know that."

"Logically?" he shrugged. "Probably. It'd be a hellava lot easier if we just ended this now. Less messy."

Despite the fact that she'd been thinking the same damn thing since waking up, she had to hide her flinch at hearing him say those words. Which was why she felt an absurd amount of relief when he pushed a wet curl of her hair behind her ear. He brushed the backs of his fingers against her temple, suddenly turning gentle again, into that same John that had managed to so thoroughly and efficently seduce her last night.

"But," he continued, "when was the last time the Pegasus Galaxy allowed us to do anything the easy way?"

Before she could respond, he was kissing her again. Even if she should have, she didn't fight it for a second. Logic dictated one thing, but some things... some things Elizabeth realized had been altered enough to be beyond repair. Her relationship with John was one of them.

She couldn't help but think that this wasn't necessarily a bad thing.


End file.
